THIS IS ONE OF MY FIRST STORIES SO PLEASE COMMENT, VOTE AND FOLLOW!!!!!!!! ENJOY!!!!!!!!!!
In the late 1990s in Australia, every day three to four people were dying due to heroin overdoses.
On Sunday the 9th of August, 1987 in Melbourne, a man shot and killed seven people from the top of a building on Hoddle Street.
I need more.
Another hit. Ignorant bliss. More. But there's none left. I used it all. No more. I can hear the TV in the background, the news blaring. I don't even remember turning it on. Things keep turning on. Off. On. Off.All the time, they don’t stop. The woman on the news is speaking again. I can’t tune it out. Why can’t she just leave me with my need?
Another hit. Ignorant bliss. More. But there's none left. I used it all. No more. I can hear the TV in the background, the news blaring. I don't even remember turning on. Things keep turning on. Off. On. Off. All the time, they don't stop. The woman on the news is speaking again. I can't tune it out. Why can't she just leave me with my need?
“Are Australians really the luckiest people in the world?” She smiles into the camera. Lucky? Am I lucky? Was my sister lucky?
“You’re a liar!” I scream at her. “Liar! Liar! Liar!” But she is ignoring me. She just keeps talking and talking and talking and talking and—my tummy hurts. It hurts so much. Too much. I can’t stand it. I can’t hold it. Why does it hurt? I feel something rising in my throat. Coming up. I go to throw up, but I can’t: I haven’t eaten in what feels like weeks, but could only be a few days. I should eat more. More.
I need more.
How have I gone this long without it? I’ve never gone this long without it before. I hear laughing and talking and music and happiness outside my house. I pull myself up to the window, struggling to see anything through the grime on the glass. It’s just a couple of kids, maybe sixteen years old at the most. The girl is wearing a long green skirt and a short top, the boys are wearing big sneakers and denim jackets, while Comfortably Numb blasts out of their little boom-box. I look down at my own tattered clothes. Grey shirt just hiding scratch marks on my arms, pants just hiding the bruises on my legs. My house is empty. Just a TV, a stained mattress and a phone. Why do they get to be happy? I’m here, fading out in my own misery, dying, while they’re there, laughing and happy. Do they think that they’re lucky? Why am I suffering? I want to go out there. I try to go outside but can’t find the strength to move an inch more. More.
I need more.
I have to have more. One call and I could have it. Everyone used to tell me I was attractive, I’m sure I could make money on the streets. But I can’t get on the streets. I can’t move past my front door. I just need one more and I’m done. One call. I can just reach the cord to the phone. But then I see you. My little sister. You are sitting in the opposite corner of the room, looking at me. You’re wearing the same tracksuit you wore on the day you died. Blood is pouring from the side of your head, falling onto the floor. I can’t breathe. Can’t. Won’t. Need to. You mouth words but I don’t understand. Why don’t I understand? I need to understand. I miss you. I miss talking. Do you remember when we were kids? Talking. I don’t talk anymore. Do you remember that day on the beach? We were surrounded by friends and boys and people and sun and honesty and nobody looked at me like they do now and, and, and…What are you saying now? What is she saying? I haven’t heard your voice since the day he took you from me. I still remember the last thing you said to me on that day. On August 9th 1987. It’s been ten years and I still remember. You had a house and dreams and love and happiness and you were living our dream, my dream, every Australian’s dream and you were like those kids outside: idealistic and naïve. But we’re not like them anymore. You’re dead and I’m in here. Here, where the walls press and press and press and press and never push away and I can’t breathe unless I can get more. But I will never be like those kids, never see you again and always craving more. The name Hoddle will haunt me until I die and when I die I will be happy but I won’t because there is no Heaven or Hell or God—if there was a God I would still have you. But all I have is my pain. I’m getting colder. Why is it so cold? Am I dying? It’s killing me. It’s saving me. Is there even a difference anymore? More.
I need more.
